Poetry By
KJ
Published on: 5/7/2010
Love's Death Roller(s)
Ah, to do the greatest of these with the greatest of ease… I am worried full of sick over love. I sit on a stool at a gaudy bar mulling over what I've learned from life as I iron myself to face the words I might hear from her beckoning, red lips: Too much familiarity with "the facts" and you'll have faith. Too much success at going nowhere and you'll have hope. Too much losing yourself to the gators and you'll find love. In the face of my experience, I ask no stay of execution, & am fully prepared to become remains, if she rends my dreams with her real indifference to my desires. So, tonight's the night, & I look so good: My eyes resemble the more fragile craters in a used fallout shelter where vultures sleep because I am so tired of working hard for love that is an alley full of groggy, lost dogs that lie dreaming of old winos freezing before the sun, or anyone can make them move on. Alcohol is a dog's best friend, and man forgets that the same way I do at this pub chewing roaches, swilling bathtub gin, and swallowing the little umbrellas they put in margaritas to work my way up to downing an open parachute when I ought to be braving the atrocious gator pit of my throbbing heart because it is a Friday and I've serious romancing to accomplish. Trudging through the moldering, squalid green swamp is almost as much fun as treading the moiling waters that have an alizarin tint. I can't say enough about threading my sludge soiled sockfeet through the noose dangling off the lone, forgotten tree in the middle of this abysmal, lizard moat of my pumping love pump. Swaying in the air, I would be alone hitting myself hot with my best thoughts if not for the matchmaking alligators that have bloody dirt to shovel on me, and that simply will not behave! They can still smell the beef bag (that I wedged in my mouth) in spite of the briefcases of acne placing tiny amounts of insufferable pressure on their big, swollen noses. I could overcome my trust issues by clasping one of their scaly tales in a lethal embrace. Instead, I am trying to be a fighter. I bob & weave to buy myself some real time in my hollow noggin to draft a plan to settle the bitter theater war I am waging against flowers over the loveliest lovely lady to ever be. Each time I deliver my amorous monologue as the gators' buttoned jaws whistle open, & as she starts running towards me to sever the tie bound to unite me with my matchmakers, those goddamn flowers crowd the stage to wave her off with their intimidating pistils! I have been butting heads with these flowers for so long my head is covered in bulbs. How hard is it to take a girl to the movies & surprise her with a beatific bouquet? The gators drive me up a tree. I am Okay in the tree. It gives me time to arrange these "flowers" somewhere in this unwieldy gaggle of odoriferous orchids, yet I am scared to the marrow that I will never find that beautiful spot for them, & I'll have to spend a few more torturous seconds debating if this lady is the type of pulchritudinous person who would accept some wildflowers from my hands, or if she is the kind of girl who'd ram a knitting needle into the bargain bin pin cushion of my pounding heart as I bow to the applauding jaws of the gators that slither by the judgment Daisies lying still on the stage whispering: She loves you not.
Published on: 1/19/2010
Post-Modern Apiary
My colony mimics a beehive, except I have not waggled with anyone who wasn't born a drone. Each morning we set our buzzes to the same humming frequency because we want to feel the therapeutic static while we bumble through the entire calendar on emotional cruise control. We've enough honey to feed all of us deep into the paradise of sterile sameness because what could be blander than the unsweetened ol' repetition of honey all bloomin' day? Gaze around. We're tawdry exhibits in a viscerally retarded wax museum. This place gives me the hives real bad.
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